Spamano Collection
by RenaUke
Summary: A collation of Spamano oneshots. Odd in style and of questionable historical content. First person Romano POV.
1. Your Banner

Your Banner

And so I will stand here and fight under your banner, for though I have banners of my own, I know they are nothing compared with yours. Though I will never tell you this. I am the only. I am the brave, the valiant, the conqueror; these are my words, and yet I know they are lies. I know that you are the true victor, the conqueror, the ruler of all the lands, and so I will align myself with you, holding my head high as if I am better than this, I do not deserve this lowly fate. But in truth, though I would never say it, I am lucky to fight by your side; I am lucky to have you with me. I am even glad to be able to stand by you and face the onslaught, though you flag is not mine, and your uniform is unfamiliar. Not unfamiliar. Familiar, and loved. Beloved, knowing that you are the one within it. But I will never tell you this. I will instead protest my anger and curl my lip in disdain.


	2. Brown and Tan

**Brown and Tan**

Brown and tan, brown and tan. That's what we both wear. I match him better than I match my own brother. No surprise, since he practically owned me when I was growing up. His bastard ways rubbed off on me. But I'll never be like him. I'll stick to myself, farm my tomatoes, and not bother anyone. But I can't. I keep thinking of him, coming up out of Sicily on his chestnut horse, with the leather greased and worn, and his weapons, metal glinting in the sun, but not pointing at me. Pointed over my small head at the great invaders in the North, who held my brother captive. He offered me his hand, and took me up behind him in his saddle. I wrapped my arms around his lean middle and gripped the crossing straps as tight as I could. And I didn't look, but hid my face in his back as he drove the vile invader from my territory. When it was done, he took me down from the horse, and smoothed my hair, and he handed me one of his short swords, and he gave me a horse, a chestnut mare like his. And he dressed me in his tan uniform and flew his flag over my house. But I let him stay, because he was my savior, a sweet gentle ruler who held me while the invaders threatened and taught me the skills of country-making. And I grew to be older, and felt trapped by him, and perhaps I threw him out. Now my country is my own and I am master of my own affairs.

But I miss him. I miss his dark hair and his bright laugh and his bastard tan uniform. I miss my bastard captor. Because he in more than a jailer. First he was a savior, then a father, then a true love. I cannot wash off his stain from me. And so I suppose I must give in and let him hold me again, even when no invader laughs from my brother's house. His arms are soft and warm even when no danger threatens.


	3. Ownership

**Ownership**

It started when my brother made friends with that bastard. The French bastard, Francis bastard-face. He invited the bastard into his house to help his little warring states take each other over. I feared it. The stupid bastard scared me stiff. Throws roses at you and then runs you through with a sword. So I invited the other bastard. My bastard. Antonio. I guess deep down I knew he'd take over, but I ignored good sense and invited him in. Opened the door for him myself, fed him full of tomatoes, ran his flag up the goddamn flagpole with my own two hands. I was his territory now, but at least he wasn't France. God, how I hate that baguette-bastard. He owned my brother (which I could have warned him would happen, if he ever listened to me). The wine-making ass stayed in the North, hovering over my world with his roses and his 'hon-hon-hon.' But I was safe. Safe under the coat of my tomato-bastard. Maybe he ruled closely, but he was careful to give me some space too.


	4. Red Seas

**Red Seas**

I kicked him out. I kicked him out, but I was sorry, most sorry on the day of the red seas. His great armada set out from the ports to take over England (when _his_ boss was the fire-head queen). Antonio could not lose. His ships were large and powerful, and his cannons were ready and primed. I heard of it, and wondered what it would be like to see his great golden-brown hulls bearing down on little England, who had far too much in common with the French bastard.

When I head the next news I was expecting to hear of Spain's victory, and steeled myself for the jealousy, that England now had the privilege of being owned by the tomato-bastard. My own. Instead I heard how his ships were all dashed and sunk and blown away, wood scattered in the waves and pounded to the bottom of the sea. My heart was in my throat. I was on the pier in an instant, not my country but myself, out in the sea near Portugal. In the shallow water where Africa begins, I saw the wreckage, all the boards splintered and waterlogged. In among the boards, there was his body, perfect and unbroken by cannon fire, but scratched and bruised and unconscious, his clothing shredded and full of splinters.

My stomach churning, I pulled him into my boat and smoothed his hair away from his face. The scratches were only shallow. He would recover, but he could not make such an endeavor again. I bent over his peaceful head and whispered in his unlistening ear,

"Ti amo, bastardo. Never again."

Suddenly his eyes opened, smiling and bright. He put his hands on either side of my face, forcing me to stay.

"Te quiero, Lovino," he returned, and pressed a gentle kiss to my nose. I sprang upward, tomato-red.

"Ah! Get off, bastard!"

He laughed.


End file.
